


Minne

by spaceythegay



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-binary character, Sibling Bonding, Suicidal Ideation, sorry guys quinn has ptsd its not a pretty ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 06:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14868815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceythegay/pseuds/spaceythegay
Summary: Quinn faced Cassandra and stated, immovable as stone, “Aydan comes with me.”There was something that was often misunderstood about the twins: Aydan was good at talk, not at being the wall that didn’t break. He was good at finding the cracks in the mortar that could break down the building, and finding the gaps in armour. Quinn was much more straightforward than that. They could not bend their mind that way, could not see from the shadows the way that Aydan could. But with an axe in hand, they could strike where Aydan pointed, strike with enough strength to bring down cities. Aydan knew where to go. Quinn was their strength.Snapshots from the life of the Herald of Andraste Quinn Trevelyan and their twin brother. Not necessarily in chronological order





	1. Början

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wrath of Heaven

Quinn woke up with the knowledge of two things: the first was the bone deep certainty that their brother was in desperate need of their help. The second was the almost-pain, cold-burning that lived deep in the bones and sinew of their hand and the bright sick-green flare that lit up the stone walls in time to their pounding pulse. The sick-green reflected off the muted silver helmets of a ring of guards, swords drawn and pointed at Quinn, like they were dangerous, about to explode. Like Quinn was a mage.

Two women stepped into the ring of guards, bringing a more natural light and a deepening of Quinn’s fear. They wore the uniform of the Divine’s personal entourage, and nothing good could come of being questioned by the Left and Right hands of the Most Holy. Minutes passed -- or was it days? -- before Quinn was pulled to their feet and pushed up the stairs into the open air.

There was something wrong with the sky. The Fade was bleeding from a wound behind the clouds, dropping demons like blood. Quinn’s hand throbbed with the beat of their heart. The shorter dark-haired woman -- Cassandra -- pulled them along through the crowd, jeers falling like stones at Quinn’s feet. The not-pain burning-electricity of the Fade-scar flared and Quinn’s arm went numb to the shoulder. Even if Quinn could find their axe, they doubted they would be able to swing it.

The huge wooden doors to the first of the stone bridges banged open and suddenly all Quinn could see was the broad shoulders of their brother as Aydan rushed at them. Quinn breathed in the sweat-leather-lavender smell of him, and pressed their head -- aching and bruised -- against Aydan’s. There was a pain like relief that settled in Quinn’s chest to match the pain in their hand. They could handle whatever the world threw at them now that Aydan was back by their side. Where he belonged.

A cough from Cassandra brought them back to the present -- and the present’s desperation. Aydanl’s mouth curled down in a sneer and took out one of his ever-present knives to cut away the bonds on Quinn’s wrists. Free to shake out the pins-and-needles buzzing from the not-scar, the tear-in-the-Veil, the sick-green on their palm, Quinn breathed a sigh of relief. Trapped made everything worse.

Quinn looked up from their hands to see Aydan yelling at Cassandra, arms gesturing wildly. Quinn approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. Aydan stopped mid-sentence and turned to face Quinn, eyes falling shut. The violet paint on his eyelids had yet to rub off, but the precise black lines framing his lashes had long since smeared. Quinn faced Cassandra and stated, immovable as stone, “Aydan comes with me.”

Cassandra growled deep in her throat and Quinn’s hand squeezed tight, pulling the seams of Aydan’s formal tunic tight across his bicep. Aydan moved his own hand to cover Quinn’s, lacing their hands together and squeezing tight. The presence of their twin was a balm, a stone against the storm, a tether to prevent Quinn from free-falling into insanity.

Aydan pulled Quinn to a table filled with weapons and put a familiar axe into Quinn’s free hand. They felt, suddenly, that they all had a chance again. The weapon, a forgotten heirloom from a forgotten corner of the Trevelyan estate, had fit the forgotten twin, the unwanted child, like another limb. _Cuihmne _,__ it was called, the letter carved in precise lines along the haft.

There was something that was often misunderstood about the twins: Aydan was good at talk, not at being the wall that didn’t break. He was good at finding the cracks in the mortar that could break down the building, and finding the gaps in armour. Quinn was much more straightforward than that. They could not bend their mind that way, could not see from the shadows the way that Aydan could. But with an axe in hand, they could strike where Aydan pointed, strike with enough strength to bring down cities. Aydan knew where to go. Quinn was their strength.

Together, the twins made swift work of the demons that fell like snow. They climbed the mountain, stopping let Quinn close the gaping wounds in the air. Wounds the same colour as their not-scar. There was a dwarf with an odd relationship with an odder crossbow who fit as if he had trained with them for years, and an elf who was soft-spoken and steadfast, whose healing magics felt like a wash of cool water over parched throats. Quinn was surprised at how well the pair of them, as unusual as they were, were able to fit into the ebb and flow of the twins’ movements. Cassandra fit a little less easily, but as long as she remained out of the way of Quinn’s axe, they managed to get along fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Början - Swedish for beginning


	2. Helvete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Champions of The Just ft. PTSD

Lord Abenthy-Abernathy-Abernache looked at Quinn, a slow up-and-down that they were used to, taking in the wide swing of their hips and the bound-flat chest hidden behind thick silverite plate. “My…. Lady,” he drawled, in his stuffy-nose Orlesian accent, sounding as disgusted as if he had just stepped in a ripe pile of Mabari shit. Quinn stretched their lips out around a pointed tooth grimace and chanted _we need allies, not enemies,_ while their fists clenched tight, the sharp spikes of the glove biting into the soft leather palm. Quinn said something that would have made Aydan smile and Josephine’s eyes squint in the way that Quinn knew meant she was pleased, and held the image of crushing the stupid Orlesian mask into this pompous lord’s face behind their eyes. It was better than nothing, though by the time they reached the doors, Quinn’s forearms were tight and their fist was shaking with the need to lash out. It was a relief when the templars started attacking. Fighting their way through the keep was difficult but expected - the cut of the letters carved into _Cuihmne_ ’s hilt comforting and the iron smell of blood invigorating.

Finding the Lord Seeker was too easy. Quinn knew this even as they rushed at the man, too late realising the trap as he smirked and threw Quinn at the huge red doors. Quinn braced for the landing that never came.

The light was the same light that had haunted their nightmares for weeks. The burning bodies were frequent actors in the dreams that had Quinn screaming themself awake (Aydan shaking them, the burning heat of his hand the only proof that Quinn was still alive) -- picking their way around the twisted figures bent in pain (how they wished it had been them, that anyone else had woken in that dungeon with the Mark of Andraste upon them) (but that would have left Aydan alone) (would that have been better?) their heart hammering a quick tempo in their throat. (Could they hear a drum beating in time with it?) (No.) (Yes.)

Familiar figures made monstrous: Leliana slid her knives into Cullen’s throat and his body crumpled on the floor like so much meat. Josephine stalked forward, a knife glinting in her hand as she slid it across her own throat. Her skin darkening and her features melting into Quinn’s own. Aydan with burning eyes falling on their shoulder, a terribly familiar wetness covering their good hand. Pulling away to find a knife in their hand and Aydan dead at their feet. Stepping back into Cullen, alive again (it’s a dream, it must be a dream, it cannot be reality, please let them be dreaming). Cullen’s eyes burned the same as Aydan’s not-body, dead on the ground. (Dead by Quinn’s own hand.) (When did Quinn pick up the knife?) Cullen’s voice echoed, words spoken from more than one throat in timbres that do not exist. (Or do they?)

Quinn ran from room to room, watching the scenes play out in front of them. Themself, dead. At their own hand, at Cassandra’s -- it was nothing that Quinn had never thought (feared) before. They never went anywhere without the axe that was larger than they were tall, but carried no knives on their person. It was better that way, no temptations. (But they could not think of this now.) Aydan dead, overrun by demons, killed by the very people he worked so hard to protect. (Dead in a fire. In a room that looked like a barn. Was that a figure Quinn saw through the haze? No. This never happened, this wasn’t real.)

Another familiar scene: Cassandra arguing over the war table. The maps aflame, a body spread-eagle, blood mixing with the ink until there was nothing left. (Was that Aydan on the table? No. The cut of the jaw was too soft, the hair too short.) (What a relief.)

Cassandra with her blade drawn at Quinn’s throat, Leliana pacing in the shadows. (Quinn cannot see her face) “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now!” The words echo in Quinn’s head. (They are inside their mind already, shouldn’t the words be echoing aloud?) (But they are.) (This is all Quinn’s mind. Grey smoke and damp corners and the smell of mold, all over the sickening green on the not-scar on their hand, all over the smell-taste-feel of burning flesh (the same taste-feeling-smell that has haunted Quinn’s every waking hour since they fell from the Fade and and woke with Cassandra’s blade on their skin). The confusing rush of disjointed memories is not unusual. Quinn knows, even if they choose to forget.) The smell of mold permeates everything. This does not comfort Quinn as much as they think it should.

The fear that had been hounding Quinn’s footsteps catch them with burning fire. The only recourse a tiny room, the door swinging shut behind them. A new fear. (It was not new. This was the fear born in the room without windows, in the darkness of the bower, in the wardrobe that Evie and Darren had locked shut.) (The barn.) (Quinn was not thinking of that.)

And then: a boy who they could not look at, an impression of blonde hair and rags, a large hat. All elbows and knees until he moved, then unworldly grace. There was an ache below their diaphragm, above their navel. (The knot of dread. The rotten food on their plate, the hollow ache of hunger. Was there ever a time where it didn’t exist?) The sightless mist in the doorway, the room growing more claustrophobic around them. (Was that smoke coming from under the door?) (The boy was not helping. If Quinn could see his face--) The strangely comforting sway of the dandelions, collecting in the corners of the room. The flowers reminded Quinn of the last time there was peace. It was so long ago.

No. Aydan would not die alone, Quinn would not be finished here, lost in their own mind. The boy, Cole, led Quinn out into the forest (Quinn had always known the way). The grass looked soft under their feet but their footsteps rang like they walked on the golden steps to the Grand Cathedral in Orlais. The heels of Quinn’s shoes became wood to better mark the steps until they were free.

The demon wearing Lucius went flying under Quinn’s fist, the thud of flesh-on-flesh satisfying after the immaterial softness of the hellscape of their own mind. Quinn breathed in the air and felt it’s sharpness in their lungs, looked around and took in the solid immovable shape of the stone. They picked up their fallen axe and tightened their grip over the letters. _Cuihmne_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helvete - Swedish for hell
> 
> This is the last pre-written thing I have but bc both chapters are super shot I'm putting them up at the same time. I'm in the process of writing more but we will see where this takes me

**Author's Note:**

> notes on translations:
> 
> Cuihmne - Irish Gaelic for memory  
> Minne - Swedish for memory, as well as German for "high courtly love" the kind of love a knight would give his queen, an unromantic, unplatonic, devotional love  
> Början - Swedish for beginning
> 
> Quinn also means "seventh child"
> 
> I have no real update schedule I am sorry, also while i plan on having a Quinn woo Josephine it might take a while, they aren't in the best headspace to be thinking of romance. Perhaps during Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts but we shall see. Also the Aydan/Dorian stuff will be mostly background as Quinn is the main character.
> 
> Kudos to my beta(s) in Elf Fuckers Anonymous, yall are amazing!


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